


pour l'amour de ma patrie

by rexthranduil



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Grantaire is a little shit that pissed off Javert when he was a teen, VIVA LA GRANTAIRE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:48:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/rexthranduil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is pursued by a police inspector into the Musain for reasons that his friends are about to learn.<br/><em>“I uh, may have, hypothetically speaking, damaged his personal property in high school.” Grantaire muttered, staring intently at the wooden table he was picking at. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	pour l'amour de ma patrie

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a crazy half-written story at five in the morning because I couldn't sleep; it's now far longer than I had intended and I hate my brain for making me do that (it was meant to be short and sweet you shit!)  
> Still, worth it tbh!  
> Title means, according to the stupid Google Translate: "for the love of my country"
> 
> .P.S. My tumblr's "grandtare.tumblr" follow me and love me mortals ;)  
> .P.P.S. Please review this, I like reviews. They make me happy.  
> .P.P.P.S. I might make this into a series, depending on my mood.

“Grantaire! What are you _doing?_ ”

Enjolras turned away from Combeferre at the sound of Jehan’s shocked exclamation. He fully expected to see Grantaire sprawled all over the poet or something equally typical of an intoxicated Grantaire.

The fact that the cynic had somehow managed to squeeze himself behind the thick armchair Jehan was sat in, to such an extent that Enjolras couldn’t actually see the artist but only knew he was there because Jehan was leaning over the back of it to stare down at Grantaire.

“Shh! Turn around and don’t let him see me!” Grantaire hissed furiously as he raised an arm and shoved Jehan back down in his chair, “seriously Jehan if he sees me I’m- _shit!_ ”

“ _What?_ ” Jehan asked, confusion evident in his voice, as he moved to sit down in his chair, “what are you-”

The sound of the bell hanging above the door to the Musain tinkled, signalling the entry of another individual. Surprised and confused by Grantaire’s behaviour, Enjolras stepped forward towards Jehan’s chair, fully intending to drag the cynic out from behind it and demand answers, when a harsh, angered voice stopped him.

“ _Where is he?!_ ”

Enjolras turned to look at the unfamiliar man standing in the doorway of the Musain, a police officer he noted judging by the clothes and the badge the man had clasped in his right hand.

“Where’s who?” Courf asked, looking up at the irate man from his seat next to Feuilly and Bahorel, his face the picture of innocent curiosity.

“Do not play games with me! You know _precisely_ who I mean!” The man snarled at Courf, his eyes burning with anger and a passion that Enjolras couldn’t identify but recognised on a fundamental level; almost as though he’d seen that passion before yet he’d never met the man.

“Officer-” Combeferre said, stepping towards the officer of the law – one who was not welcome in the Musain but they couldn’t kick him just yet.

“Inspector. I am Inspector Javert of the Préfecture de police de Paris.” The man, Javert, snapped at Combeferre, fixing his intense gaze upon the bespectacled student revolutionary.

“Inspector,” Combeferre amended, looking Javert directly but not challengingly – something Enjolras himself couldn’t actually manage to do but Combeferre did it naturally, “I’m sorry but we honestly have no idea who you’re talking about. We’ve all been here for the past hour discussing our various studies and haven’t been interrupted by anyone bar yourself.”

Javert fumed, rage and aggression pouring off him tangible waves of hostility as he stared down Combeferre who, with the natural grace of his unbelievable poker face and genial personality, didn’t grow unnerved by the Inspector’s demeanour.

“Perhaps if you could describe him Inspector?” Joly ventured; his voice meek and unassuming – though the fierce annoyance blazing in his eyes assured everyone who knew him that he really did not like the Inspector.

Javert’s gaze settled on Joly for a few tense, moments in deliberation before he seemed to decide that Joly’s request wasn’t absurd.

“He is approximately six foot,” _‘wrong, he’s 5-9’_ Enjolras thought as the Inspector continued to describe their friend, “has curly black hair,” _‘dark brown you idiot’_ , “and was wearing a dark green jacket and red hat,” _‘it’s a beanie and it’s burgundy not red’_ , “he is wanted in connection to criminal offenses carried out in the area.”

The room was silent for a long moment before Enjolras decided that it was time he stepped in and either resolved the issue or swept it aside in favour of ranting about the inequality of the judiciary system.

“I’m afraid we’ve seen no such man Inspector Javert but, if it would help, you are free to have a look around; I am sure the patron of the café would be more than willing to permit you entry to the back rooms.” Enjolras said firmly, his voice brokering no argument and drawing Javert’s attention to the leader of the Amis. He stared down the Inspector, unlike Combeferre, Courf or Joly, he would not be cowed by a man who misused the power of his legally appointed position to bully others. But he wouldn’t start a fight with him either; Combeferre’s covert yet pointed glance at him reminded me of his responsibilities. Getting arrested would not help him, or their cause.

 _'Though, lying to this Inspector about Grantaire probably won’t help either,’_ he thought as he stepped aside for the Inspector to make his way to the back rooms where Musichetta was waiting.

In the lull created by the Inspector’s disappearance into the back rooms, no one dared speak, choosing to communicate with facial expressions and hand motions rather than spoken words. Combeferre and Enjolras exchanged glances, concerned with the whole debacle, while Courf, Joly and Jehan waves furiously at one another trying to figure out what it was Grantaire had done to earn the wrath of a police inspector. Marius and Cosette, along with Eponine, were sat in the corner furthest from the door and, theoretically, Javert silently exchanging frowns about the possibility of Grantaire being found and arrested. None of them really cared about the potential arresting of themselves should Javert find their friend, they were more concerned with his possible arrest than their own; priorities, they had them at times.

After several silent minutes Javert reappeared at the doorway to the back rooms and surveyed them all standing, sitting or reclining in their seats. He seemed to be struggling internally with what he knew he had to say lest he be accused of misusing his power as an enforcer of the law. Enjolras would dearly love to insult the man and his behaviour but Combeferre, apparently sensing Enjolras’ desire, nudged him lightly with his elbow.

“It would appear that I was incorrect and that the criminal is not on the premises,” Javert ground out, looking at none of them before turning to Musichetta and adding, “my apologises Madame.”

Without any further preamble Javert strode across the Musain, over to the door and, without looking back, left; the bell over the door tingling almost as though it were a call to them all that the cost was clear and no arrests were imminent.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said calmly, his voice belying his eyes which were burning with confusion, curiosity and annoyance at the disruption caused by the cynical artist, “why do the police consider you to be a ‘person of interest’ in a criminal case?”

Grantaire, attempting his best to avoid answering Enjolras, busied himself with escaping the small space he had hidden in without breaking his neck in the process. He really didn’t want to answer Enjolras but, since the student revolutionary was obviously interested in his ‘criminal activities’ he knew he wouldn’t be getting out of the café before he was rung dry for an explanation.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras barked, his frustration bleeding into his voice, colouring his words and assuring Grantaire that Enjolras wasn’t so angry at him specifically but rather at the situation. Or at least, he hoped it was at the situation.

“I’m not a ‘person of interest’ to the police Apollo!” Grantaire exclaimed as he threw himself down next to Joly, grabbed the medical students abandoned drink and knocked it back in one go. He really didn’t want to be talking about this but; as per usual, the universe did not act in any rational, nor conditional manner as to permit him protection from anything.

“It’s just Javert,” He continued, waving a hand in an act of dismissal, “the old bastard’s had it in for me for years.”

“Why?” Jehan asked, leaning forward in his chair so he could better see the cynic. Grantaire avoided looking at any of them, either in embarrassment or his generic ‘who-gives-a-fuck?’ attitude, but Jehan figured it was the former rather than the later judging by the light blush settling on the cynic’s cheeks.

“I uh, may have, hypothetically speaking, damaged his personal property in high school.” Grantaire muttered, staring intently at the wooden table he was picking at. The entire café was deadly silent, none of them daring to breath loudly and so it made Grantaire’s words seem unnaturally loud.

“What did you do to make the guy hold a grudge _this long_?” Courf exclaimed, amazed that his friend, drinking buddy and fellow practical joker, had been a bit of a rebel in high school. Obviously they all knew Grantaire had problems with authority but, for the most part, they all figured he didn’t care enough about anything to actually do _something_. Apparently they were wrong.

Instead of answering Courf’s question, Grantaire chose instead to reach for Courf’s drink but Courf snatched it up and held it out of his reach. “Oh no!” Courf exclaimed, “You’re so telling us about this R!”

“Ass,” Grantaire muttered, glaring at the excited psychology student. He really didn’t want to tell them, any of them, they’d just be disappointed in him on some level – probably for not continuing with his rebellious behaviour from high school, choosing instead to become a drunken cynic.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras said, his voice clear and sharp, cutting into Grantaire’s doubts and causing his gaze to snap up and lock with the golden God standing before him. He didn’t say anything to him, Grantaire knew that Enjolras knew he didn’t need to; saying his name was more than enough motivation to get the cynic talking.

He hated that.

~~He loved that.~~

“I may have, hypothetically, painted several scenes of pertaining to equality on his private property.” Grantaire hedged, trying desperately to not go into detail and reveal the whole, sordid escapade of his youth. It was pointless however because he saw, out of the corner of his eye, how Joly sat up and opened his mouth.

“What did you paint?” Joly asked, awe clear in his voice because he’d known Grantaire for years and he’d never seen the cynic paint anything even remotely related to equality in any way, shape or form.

 _‘Shit,’_ Grantaire thought as he sighed and his fingers itched to snatch the glass of, tequila was it, out of Courf’s hand and drink it. _‘Oh well, might as well tell them everything, they won’t stop asking otherwise.’_

“According to Javert’s suspicions I painted a fresco of a life-sized Patria battling against the bourgeoisie establishment and class-system on the side of his house, as well as a revolutionary atop of a barricade firing bullets of liberty at a wall of oppression on his car.” Grantaire answered, his voice quiet but clear and firm. It echoed around the deathly silent Musain, and everyone inside – the members of the Amis who had known him for nearly five years were shocked and a little bit amazed at his declaration.

“Holy shit.” Bahorel breathed into the silence, his sentiment echoed by others as they nodded in agreement.

“Wait! I remember this being on the news!” Feuilly exclaimed suddenly into the silence that had followed Bahorel’s statement. “It was when I was in my last year of high school, my art teacher was demanding me to find something to draw inspiration from and I was so pissed off about it because he was constantly giving me shit marks because I was doing loads of stuff about Poland!”

“Not unusual for you.” Courf joked earning a ‘fuck-you’ motion from Feuilly who continued.

“My mum had been flipping through the channels and she stopped on the news channel and this story came up about this politically-motivated graffiti peace on the side of some guy’s house.” Feuilly looked over at Grantaire, his eyes locking with his fellow artist's, “I used that as my inspiration. Shit… I used _you_ for my art work R!”

Everyone was silent; Enjolras stared in shock at Feuilly, along with everyone else because, it would never have crossed their minds that Grantaire, the cynical, drunken, broken Grantaire, could be an inspiration to anyone, let alone a revolutionary like Feuilly.

“Oh.” Grantaire breathed meekly, his face pale and eyes wide. “What did you get?” He asked because, he literally couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Top marks and a scholarship to the arts college.” Feuilly answered simply.

“Well… uh. Four for you Feuilly.” Grantaire muttered, blinking rapidly because, _holy fuck_ someone had actually achieved something using his crappy art. He couldn’t believe it, his art was crap. He didn’t paint anything worthy of acclaim, he only ever used dark, dull and lifeless colours for his works – except for those pieces he’d done that no one would ever see because- no, just no. He wasn’t a Da Vinci, he was no Rembrandt, heck he wasn’t even a Banksy! He was just Grantaire; lost, lonely, broken and cynical Grantaire. He was a nihilist to the core, caring not for change or provoking the alteration of nature for the benefit of humanity. He didn’t care and so, indirectly, his art was worthless.

But here was Feuilly, a fellow artist, who painted in glorious technicolour and gave life and power and worth and beauty to all he saw in the world, saying that his art, Grantaire’s meaningless art, was inspirational. Only he wasn’t. Not really because Grantaire’s art from high school was alive, it had lived and breathed and existed in the world, it had challenged people and brought to the fore-front of their minds injustice and intolerance, inequality and hate. It had made them doubt their opinions, their irrational considerations of the world and all who lived within it. But he’d lost that, that spark of hope, somewhere between college and now. So his art wasn’t inspirational, not anymore, now it was hopeless and dead; just like him.

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past and, like I said, Javert only thinks it was me, there’s no proof!” Grantaire said suddenly, refusing to further consider his art and his own failures. “Let’s get this end-of-term party really started!”

Courf and Bahorel, seeming to agree with Grantaire’s statement, wooped excitedly and the three of them began drinking in earnest, refusing to stop in their crazed attempts to kill themselves with alcohol long enough to realise that Enjolras, Feuilly, Jehan and Combeferre were all frowning in equal parts disappointment and concern for Grantaire.

Enjolras most especially.


End file.
